Merriment and Mayhem
by Sparky Dorian
Summary: For Hades' December Calendar Challenge! Adventure and excitement with the residents and friends of 221B. Dec 21st: A mystery in rhyme.
1. Cough

Dec 13th's prompt was from Spockologist: 221B's roof collapses from snow.

Fitting, as this past Friday was Friday the 13th! A terrible spot of luck for our friends.

Poor Holmes, poor Watson... They'll be dreadfully chilly. Enjoy!

* * *

It was a fairly boring afternoon on Baker Street.

A peaceful sort of boring, however; not of the variety that sent my friend reaching for his syringes or seeking out a new target for my revolver. We had just solved a most confounding case, and as such, his mental functions were still satiated.

I was sitting in an armchair near the fire, perusing a new medical publication. It was a critique of various practices, featuring opinions from Doctors practicing in England, Europe, and America. I had just come across a section on bloodletting. I became thoroughly engrossed and paid my surroundings very little mind.

(As for myself, I have found that bloodletting can have its benefits in certain situations, but I shun it as a cure-all. Too many times, I have seen already weakened patients crippled by a removal of so much vital blood, and even healthy ones brought low following the procedure.)

Holmes was tinkering at his desk. The occasional clink of metal or scratch of his pen broke the silence, but all was peaceful.

Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. "I'm going out! I'll be back in a few hours!"

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," I responded.

Holmes continued his work, quiet.

Briefly, I glanced up from my reading. A faint noise creaked from above. "Do you suppose it's still snowing?" I asked Holmes.

"Possibly," he said, in a vague tone that suggested he'd not actually heard my question.

"Hm." I frowned, turning the page to a section on remedies for consumption.

The creaking noise came again, louder. Uneasy, I set down my book and stood, taking a step toward my friend. "Holmes..."

All at once, the ceiling splintered in.

Snow and wood came crashing down on us, knocking me to the ground. The wind stolen clean out of my lungs, I laid under a heap of snow, gasping for breath.

"Watson!" Holmes's shout was muffled through the debris.

"W-wh-" I panted, my face crushed into a Persian carpet we'd received from a client. As my attention was singularly on it, I noted that it could've used a cleaning. I inhaled sharply, my lungs burning. "I'm here!" I shouted back, hoarse.

"What in blazes happened?" I could hear Holmes pushing through the snow. I braced my hands on the floor and fought to stand, my fingers beginning to go numb.

I emerged. The pile rose past my knees.

"The roof collapsed," I said, dry.

"Yes, I can see _that_. But why?" Holmes waded amongst the wreckage, searching.

My brow furrowed. "Why, from the snow, of course."

"This roof was repaired and reinforced not two months ago." Holmes brushed a pile of frost away from his experiment, pushing the desk to rest beneath an intact portion of cover. "With this amount of snow on it, there is no reason for it to give in."

I tucked my hands into my pockets, shivering. "I suppose... But it does seem like quite a lot of snow to me."

Holmes dragged an armchair to the centre of the room and beckoned me closer. "Hold this steady, would you?"

I obliged, mourning for the once cozy and dry sofa that would soon by dripping and frozen.

As I held it still, Holmes climbed it, standing on tiptoe and leaping the gap to the remainder of our sitting room roof.

"Careful, Holmes!" I cried.

"I am always careful." The detective disappeared from view. Wind whistled overhead, blowing frigid air and _more_ snow inside. I shivered, waiting.

After a moment, Holmes reappeared. He dropped neatly from the ceiling, landing in a heap of snow, and straightened. "We have been sabotaged."

"_Sabotaged_? By whom?" I edged nearer to the sputtering fire, willing some warmth back into my legs.

Holmes held up a small axe, his expression both grim and alight with interest. "There are marks from several different blades. I expect that in their haste to abandon the scene they lost this one in the snow."

"Why would someone do such a thing?" I demanded, indignant.

"That is the question, now, isn't it?" Holmes threw the axe over his shoulder, seizing my sleeve and dragging me to the stairs.

"Where are we going?" I asked. He tugged on a coat and scarf as I did the same. (It is a mark of my longstanding partnership with Holmes that, in general, I now comply without requiring much explanation.)

"To investigate, obviously." Holmes secured a hat over his ears and picked up the axe again, stowing it inside his coat. "We have a case to solve."

I wiggled my stiff fingers into a pair of mittens. "Now? Shouldn't we find Mrs. Hudson? Leave her a note?"

Holmes opened the door and bade me to exit, his mouth twisting wryly. "Watson," he said, "I have no doubt that she will notice all on her own."


	2. The Christmas Tree Affair

_Trying to dash this off before work, so forgive me if it's a bit choppy..._

_Today's prompt is from Madam'zelle Giry: That Christmas tree would have been perfect if it hadn't been for..._

I hung the last ornament carefully, my fingers reflected in the smooth red glass. Stepping back with Mrs. Hudson to admire our handiwork, I sighed, content. The Christmas season always brought a sense of peace to me; especially now that I had so many good friends.

"It looks lovely, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, reaching to embrace me from the side. I smiled.

"You chose a beautiful tree, nanny. Well done." I sunk onto the settee with her. We enjoyed a late-night snack of biscuits and hot chocolate, warming our feet by the crackling fire. It was an ideal evening, really, save for one absence.

"Holmes still refuses to leave his room?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sipping from her mug. I nodded, frowning.

"I don't know what he could be doing up there," I responded. "We finished our case this morning."  
"Well, I expect he's up to something dreadful," she remarked lightly. "He'll be down with charred hands and a lot of rubbish for us to clean up before long."

I laughed. "I expect you're right."

We retired soon after that; happy with the knowledge that Baker Street was now properly festive.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Hudson's cry came from below. I hurried my descent of the stairs, my loose tie flapping up into my face.

"What? What is it?" I skidded on the rug and slid to a halt.

I gaped.

"He didn't."

Mrs. Hudson had gone rather pale. "He did. Oh, he's gone too far this time. I'm going to have a word with him."

I winced for my friend's sake. "Perhaps he had good reason-"

"Do not defend him, Doctor. Look what he's done to the tree!"

All the branches on the bottom half had been hacked off; rather neatly, but it left the trunk exposed and the tree looking foolish. The removed ornaments were tossed haphazardly onto the settee.

I rubbed my temples and followed nanny's path up the stairs-I could already hear her shouting.

Christmas spirit for everyone.

I took Mrs. Hudson out for some shopping, hoping to lift her mood and distract her from her annoyance with Holmes. We meandered through shops, and I stood by as she inspected dishes and baubles.

A very fine magnifying glass caught my eye. But Holmes had them aplenty at home, he had no need for another.

It was early in December yet, I decided. Gifts could wait.

Sometime late in the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson and I returned to Baker Street. A light sprinkling of snow covered the front steps. We made our way up and headed for the sitting room.

The sight waiting therein stopped us in our tracks.

Holmes had been at it again.

Mrs. Hudson let out a long sigh. "I suppose he tried, at least."

"It seems your words had quite an effect," I agreed, my mouth turning up in a wry smile.

Holmes had sawed off the bottom of the tree, leaving it compensate, he'd dragged a small table into the sitting room and set the tree aloft, draping what looked to be a red dishtowel around the base.

The effect was rather homely, but also oddly heartwarming.

Mrs. Hudson wandered off into the kitchen, but I stepped forward and tugged on the needles, my smile spreading into a grin.

It seemed my friend had something of a Christmas spirit, after all.


	3. A Quiet Chapel

_From Book girl fan: Holmes finds himself in a church one Christmas Eve._

* * *

The chapel was silent.

Candles lined the walls, now burning low; a faint scent of incense hung on the air. Holmes trudged up the aisle, snow settling on his weighted shoulders, and cringed when the doors slammed behind him.

His entrance felt like an intrusion.

The hour was late, the world outside dark and cold. Holmes sank onto the foremost pew, his head bowing downward.

He had come seeking quiet, but now found himself regretting it. His turbulent thoughts threatened to overcome him in this soundless, lifeless place.

"You are weary." The man's voice sliced through the room, soft yet solid. Holmes lifted his gaze.

The man was older than he; stooped with age, but fleet of step and bright of eye. His bearing spoke of confidence and contentment.

"Weary? Not I." Holmes's smile twisted his mouth. "You are mistaken."

The man shook his head, leaning against the pulpit. "I am rarely mistaken. What troubles you?"

Holmes's hands tightened on his knees. "It is not something I discuss freely. I wish for some time alone, if you please, sir."

"I understand." The man clasped Holmes's shoulder as he passed. "The Lord always keeps a blessing reserved for the heavy soul. Give your troubles to him."

He left Holmes in silence once again.

A modest Christmas tree stood in the corner, adorned with the humblest of ornaments. Holmes's chest twinged, and he cast his attention to a mural of a white-robed Mary holding the Christ child.

Somewhere in London, Watson was lying awake. Holmes knew him; knew that the old war memories, combined with the recent trauma of Holmes's perceived death would haunt him viciously on a night so significant as Christmas Eve.

He would be alone. Grieving.

Holmes's mind swirled with regret, with doubt, with turmoil.

Logic denied that the utterance of a few words could bring any lasting peace, but something in the Babe's face beckoned him to try.

He let out one low, shaky breath, and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"If you have any blessings to spare tonight," Holmes murmured, his fingers curling. "Please. Give them to Watson."


	4. Nanny Saves the Day

_From KnightFury/Ennui Enigma: Mrs. Hudson reveals an unexpected talent. _

_A day late, sorry! I was going for a 221b but it got too long... Enjoy!_

* * *

"Oi! Watch where you're goin'!"

"Sorry!" I cried, tugging Holmes out of the way of an errant hound. The cart behind us was now several mince pies lighter. I shook the remnants from my shoe, grimacing.

"He's still after us, old chap," Holmes said, panting. His eyes were alight with adrenaline. "We can't slow down now."

"I know," I replied crossly. I scrubbed at my eyebrow, cringing when my sleeve came away red. This shirt would need the tender care of a launderer. The gash from where the villain had struck me still bled, dripping down into my eye.

Holmes yanked me around the corner. "Baker Street at last. We'll bandage your eye soon enough, Watson."

We stumbled up the steps and fell inside, collapsing on the staircase and gasping for breath.

Mrs. Hudson came round from the sitting room. She looked us over. "What have you two been doing now?"

"Man," I said, closing my eyes. "Chased us."

A banging knock came at the door and we froze.

Mrs. Hudson opened it.

"Oi," the man growled. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. I believe he may've come in here."

"Sherlock Holmes? I have never heard of such a person. Young man," Mrs. Hudson said, severe. "There is no one here but old Mrs. Willaby. If you wake her with your racket, I will call a constable."

There was a pause. "Whatever you say, Mum. I'll be watching."

The door closed and Mrs. Hudson turned around, a faint air of satisfaction plain on her face.

My friend gaped beside me. "Why, Mrs. Hudson," said he, "I never knew you possessed such a gift for deception."

Mrs. Hudson smiled benignly. "Of course you did not," she said, light. "That is precisely how I wished it to be."


	5. Snowballs and Sneaky Friends

_From KnightFury: Holmes is hit by a snowball, but who threw it?_

_A successful 221B this time! Silly fluff._

* * *

I accompanied my friend across the snowy park. He concealed a yawn.

"You are going to sleep when we get home," I told him, stern.

Holmes glanced up, his dark eyes glassy. "No time, old fellow. I've got to puzzle out how-"

"Later, then." I steered him around an icy stone. "We were up all night, Holmes. We're both going to sleep."

The sun was rising sluggishly, shining through fog.

Holmes yawned again. "Perhaps you're right. I suppose-"

A snowball struck him in the back of the neck, dripping down his collar. He stiffened and shuddered.

Whirling around, he scanned the snow. "Who threw that?"

A group of ragged children stood, red-cheeked and sheepish. They all pointed to a tall, gangling man with a bowtie.

He stood next to a petite young woman with dark hair.

"Sorry about that," the man said, stepping forward with raised hands. "It flew off course. I suspect a gravitational anomaly, but-"

"What he _means_," the woman interjected. "Is that he's a rotten shot. Our apologies, gents."

I brushed snow of Holmes's back. "No harm done, right, Holmes?"

Holmes nodded, grimacing like a wet cat.

We turned to go. A snowball hit the back of my head.

Giggles erupted behind us.

This time Holmes scooped up snow, grim-faced.

"Watson, we are going to battle."


	6. Ninjas

Thank you so much for all your kind reviews! I get a big, silly grin when I read them. You're all supportive and nice. I will try to respond individually when I get home from work today. :)

Also: I know a lot of you know Spockologist... She is serving a Mission for our church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) which involves spending 18 months away from home and friends. I've asked a couple people already, but I'm currently in the midst of an ongoing project of sending her encouragement. If any of you would like to contribute, just message me with a note or thought for her. Thanks!

December 6th's prompt was from SheWhoScrawls: Ninjas.

xxxxx

"Watson," Holmes hissed, his shoulder blades pressed up against mine, "do you have your revolver?"

"No," I responded, through gritted teeth. "I left it at home today."

Holmes stiffened. "Of course you did." His tone was acid. Under other circumstances, it might's pricked at my heart.

But as we were currently surrounded by a half dozen masked, black-clad figures of undoubtedly malicious intent, I could forgive him.

"Who are you?" I scanned the shielded faces, only able to see glinting, dark eyes.

"They are Xao Lang's welcoming party," Holmes said, low. "Do you feel welcomed?"

"Not particularly." I glanced out of the corner of my eye and tried to mimic Holmes's defensive pose. Hand-to-hand combat and its subtleties had never been my area of expertise.

"You should not have come here, Mister Holmes," one of our attackers said, her voice clear and concise. "Xao Lang does not appreciate you poking around."

"Stop your investigation," the man next to her said. "Or you will not live to see the end of the week."

"Now, gentlemen, and ladies," Holmes said, his languid tone belying the tension in his muscles. "Watson and I both know that Xao Lang had Shi Jian Kai killed, and we have proof."

A murmur ran between the two speakers. "Have you told your Scotland Yard?"

"We have not."

Holmes was firm.

He was bluffing.

I kept my face impassive, praying that he knew what game he was playing. Certain that he had the risks calculated, I maintained my defensive posture.

"Then we cannot let you leave," the woman said.

In unison, the enemies struck.

Holmes parried blows, ducking and whirling.

I used my cane to deflect a man's arm's, cringing as another's caught me in the side.

The fight was a blur, the figures shadowy in the half-darkness. They landed stinging blows along my arms, my neck. I found it impossible to guard against all of them.

Then one of them drew a sword, and my heart skipped. He brought it down toward me. It struck my cane, catching in the thick wood. I tugged backward and my attacker leapt away, taking his sword and my cane with him.

In the distance, I saw Holmes crumple.

"Holmes!"  
I raced toward him, heedless of my own safety.

He was conscious, but gasping for breath and pale. I tugged his collar loose and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Holmes, what happened?"

"Just... took a blow to the chest, dear man," he panted. "I'll be alright."

Xao Lang's forces were circling us again, several swords now glinting in the moonlight.

"You... Take the ones on the left, I'll take the ones on the right?" I asked, holding Holmes's head off the damp ground.

Holmes laughed, then coughed.  
I had nearly begun to offer my final prayers to the heavens, when a new figure swung into sight.

It collided with two of the others, knocking them to the ground. Within seconds, this newcomer had sparred with and bested all of our attackers.

She tugged off her mask, revealing bright, almond-shaped eyes and a satisfied smile.

Holmes forced himself to a standing position and looked her up and down. "You are Shi Jian Kai's sister."

Her smile hardened to a thin line. "I am."

"We are sorry about your brother," I said, stepping forward.

"So am I." She glanced to the side. "You should leave. Xao Lang will send more men soon enough."

"Your brother was trying to do the right thing," Holmes said. "You should be proud of him."

Our rescuer smiled again, faint this time. "Thank you, Mister Holmes. If you can prove that to the rest of the world, I will be in your debt."

"We will do our best. With a bit of luck, Xao Lang will fall when your brother's name rises." Holmes dusted himself off. His voice was still strained, but he'd regained a smooth composure.

"Thank you for helping us," I said, picking up my cane. It now bore a thick slice in the middle.

The girl's smile turned mischievous. "It was my pleasure." She darted forward and kissed Holmes full on the mouth, then disappeared into the darkness.

I smothered a laugh with my hand; my friend's face was written with confusion and surprise.

She had shocked the great Sherlock Holmes well and truly.

I clapped him on the shoulder and led him from the square. "You must have charmed her, old fellow."

His cheeks flushed. He muttered under his breath, "Kissing ninjas. Not to be trusted."


	7. Walk Like an Egyptian

You are all awesome! Thanks for your reviews. I'm sorry I've been so dreadful at responding, and at reading all of your stories. I've not been feeling so well. But hopefully this week I will catch up on that (_and_ stay caught up on prompts-yeesh!).

My Sherlock Holmes consumption has been extremely varied in adaptations and sources lately... So my wires are all kinds of crossed. I don't know who I'm channelling in this chapter, but Watson is cranky and Holmes cracks me up.

Yesterday's prompt was from SheWhoScrawls: Holmes and Watson magically find themselves transported to Ancient Egypt. And we must've been sharing some serious brainwaves; I've got a similar prompt lined up for somebody later this month!

xxxxx

I awoke slowly, my head throbbing with such a furious ache that I wished at once to be unconscious again.

My eyes opened. My vision was fogged, but I dimly beheld a curious wooden roof leading to sandy walls. Nothing like Baker Street; nothing, indeed, like anything I had seen in a great many years.

Pain stabbed at my sides as I pushed myself to a sitting position, but I swallowed a groan.

My vision cleared and I blinked once.

Twice.

Sherlock Holmes sat before me; cross-legged, closed-eyed, and shirtless.

He was wearing a white loincloth-I wondered how he meant to survive the cold, then realized that it was sweltering in this strange mud dwelling.

I wiped my brow and scowled.

"Holmes!"

He quirked one eyebrow and opened one eye, briefly, then closed it again.

"I see you've finally decided to grace the world with your subtle and _refined _presence."

"My-What the devil is going on?" I got to my feet, swaying on the spot. I grabbed the back of a wooden chair, steadying myself. "Where are we?"

"You cannot tell?" Holmes's fists were pressed together in a meditative pose, his face blank once again.

Irritation flared along with my headache. I took a breath, tamping it down and uncurling my fists. My chest loosened. "No, _Holmes_, I cannot."

Holmes jerked his head to the side. "Look out the window."

I limped to the large, square window and leaned out. The sun was blinding, glinting off sand. Below us, the streets were bustling, stalls filling the corners. Carts and animals plodded through the crowds, and far in the distance I caught a glimpse of a tall, gleaming pyramid.

"_Egypt_?" I breathed, my fingers digging into the mud bricks.

"Indeed." Holmes didn't move. "Ancient Egypt, to be precise. By my estimates, we have found ourselves sometime after the year 1400 BC."

I sat heavily on the floor before him, staring blankly ahead.

Such a discovery ought to have rendered me useless for some time, but after so many adventures with Holmes, I suppose I had become accustomed to the unexpected.

"How?" I asked, after a moment. "The last I recall we were-"

"Having tea with Octavian Flaversham, yes." Holmes twitched. "I suspected the man to be a time traveler from the moment we met him. His flamboyant name was clearly an alibi."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "And you didn't think to include me in your suspicions?"

Holmes's eyes opened properly for the first time. His shoulders curled forward, a hint of sheepishness in his gaze. "I thought about it. In this instance, I wished to have concrete evidence to present with my case. Even for me, it was a difficult concept to grasp."

"How considerate of you." I looked him over. "You've acclimated well."

"Oh, yes." Holmes smiled, catlike. "Charming people, the Ancient Egyptians. Clever. Very concerned with cleanliness. They believed us to be heathens, or perhaps Canaanites, dressed as we were. The family who lives here remedied our situation posthaste."

For the first time, I noticed that I was dressed in a flowing white tunic. My cheeks flushed. "Who-"

"Do not ask, dear fellow," Holmes advised. "Your peace of mind will thank you."

I shook my head to clear it. "If... you say so. What have you discovered?"

"Flaversham is nowhere to be found, though a lovely young lady who sold me those flowers-" he indicated a vase of blue lilies, "has seen a man who matches his description. The family here are called Bek and Iset, they have a daughter named Tabiry. They have agreed to let us stay here us for the time being. We have acquired temporary jobs as housekeepers in the inn down the street-"

"You?" I laughed. "A housekeeper? You can't even keep the kitchen table clean!"

"I can be tidy when I desire," Holmes replied haughtily. "Do not interrupt."

"Oh, by all means," I waved him onward, "continue."

Holmes sniffed and went on. "We are fortunate to have arrived in a fairly peaceful dynasty. If we maintain a degree of covertness, we ought to remain more or less unmolested until we either locate Flaversham, or the effects of his time manipulation wear off."

"What makes you think it will wear off?"

"The journal I... appropriated from Flaversham implied that he has been, thus far, unable to stabilize the effects." Holmes glanced outside. "I do not believe we will be here longer than a few weeks."

I rested my head in my hand, shoulders slumping. "Well, I suppose it's fortunate you've secured positions for us. How long did it take you? Was I unconscious for hours? Days?"

Holmes's eyebrow arched again. "Not at all. You were asleep for perhaps thirty minutes."

"You did all that in half an hour?" I scoffed. "I find that rather hard to believe."

Holmes bristled. "Just because-"

The door swung open and a young man came in, regarding me with curiosity and concern.

He asked a question.

Holmes gesticulated wildly and the man responded in kind. I stared, awestruck, as the two of them communicated an entire conversation in manically enthusiastic, silent gestures.

Holmes nearly struck me in the face with one large sweep.

When at last their meaning was understood, Holmes took me by the arm. "Come, Watson. It's time for supper. We're having lentils and roast crane."

"Watson," the young man greeted with a beaming smile, his accent thick but pleasant.

As we started down a ramp to the ground floor, I surrendered myself to a few weeks in Ancient Egypt. And as they said, when in Rome...

I sighed. "Hello, Bek."


	8. How Not to Train Your Dragon

December 8th's prompt was from Lucillia: shortly before departing for the Reichenbach falls, Moriarty finds a toddler abandoned in his room with a note from a local prostitute who is seeking a better life for her child. Does it become a hostage he could use as a bargaining chip when dealing with Holmes at what should be his end, or does the professor have a heart?

Props for having the most detailed prompt I've ever gotten! This was fun.

My Moriarty turned out... interestingly. *sheepish* And cracky. Written under extreme sleep deprivation. I am finally feeling better though... Thank you for your well wishes, buddies. :) Enjoy!

* * *

"...Professor?"

"Quiet, Sebastian. I'm busy."

Sebastian blinked down at the doorstep. "You'll want to see this."

"In a moment."

Sebastian edged away from the door. "I really think-"

"Fine!" Something slammed down inside and Moriarty stalked to Sebastian's side. "_What_."

Sebastian pointed.

Moriarty blinked.

The toddler on their doormat blinked back at him.

Moriarty blinked again.

"Who are you?" He demanded of the child.

Sebastian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Geniuses. They expected everyone to be on their level.

The toddler's wide blue eyes darted between the two of them. She withdrew her thumb from her mouth. "Anna. What your name?"

"That is none of your concern. Go away, now. I have a very important appointment today, child, and I cannot be late."

The little girl crossed her arms, scowling. "You mean."

"Mean?" Moriarty laughed. "That is perhaps the kindest thing I have ever been dubbed. Now, truly. Go away. Find your mother."

At this, Anna's eyes welled up with tears and she clutched at a ragged blanket. "She leave."

"Leave? What-"

But Anna sniffled and let out a tiny whimper, burying her face in her blanket. Her legs gave out and she fell squarely onto her bottom, whimpers rising to wails.

Moriarty, already a pale man, blanched to a shade of milky white. He stumbled-nay, retreated, and shoved Sebastian forward. "Moran. Deal with it."

His employer disappeared back into their hotel rooms.

Sebastien knelt, extending a hand toward the child. "Anna? Don't cry. You're alright. How old are you?"

Anna peeked out at him, suspicious, but held up two stubby fingers. "Who you?"

"I'm Sebastian." He took her small hand and shook it. Her nose wrinkled.

"Seshaban?"

"Sebast-Seb. You can call me Seb."

Anna reached for him then, and he couldn't help but scoop her up. As he stood, a note fluttered from the folds of her worn dress. He caught it and scanned the words, frowning.

* * *

"A prostitute?" Moriarty scoffed and adjusted his collar, standing before a full-length mirror. "What was she thinking?"

Sebastian handed Anna another biscuit and bounced her gently. She wasn't a fussy child; he was grateful. One of his nieces was, more often than not, inconsolable.

He quirked an eyebrow at Moriarty. "That two wealthy Englishman might give her daughter a better life."

Moriarty turned his head far enough to give Sebastian a withering look. "Really, Moran, you'd better leave the logical leaps to Holmes and I."

"No, it says in her note." Sebastian held it up, reading, "You and your friend seem to be wealthy Englishman. I hope you will give my Anna a better life."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Charming. Clever on her part. Playing on our sympathies, betting that we would feel too guilty to abandon a child. Well, she didn't know it was _me_ she was gambling with!"

"But sir," Sebastian let Anna explore his hair with her crumb-covered fingers. "We're not really going to abandon her, are we?"

Moriarty turned back to the mirror and dusted off his suit. "Of course we are. Holmes will be here in four days at most. I have an appointment at the falls, and you've an appointment with the rifle in case things go awry. Neither of us have time to play nursemaid."

Sebastian held her tighter. "Can we not at least keep her until then? Ensure she falls into adequate care?"

With a highly melodramatic sigh, Moriarty acquiesced. "Oh, very well. But _don't_ get attached, Moran. We aren't keeping her."

* * *

Sebastian stared through his spotting scope, his heart frozen.

The bloody detective had jumped.

Jumped, and taken Moriarty with him.

Anna cooed behind him, curled asleep near his feet. Sebastian swallowed a lump in his throat, his elbows digging into cold stone. He rested his head against his forearm, a wave of denial washing over him.

A moment passed.

His heart heavy, he lifted his head and looked through the scope again.

He gasped.

There, stomping out of the pool behind the falls, was a wet, scowling James Moriarty.

Sebastian slung his rifle over his shoulder and scooped Anna up. He raced from their perch in the cliffs, stumbling down the mountainside in his haste.

Anna jerked awake and clung to him, giggling as the cool wind tickled her face.

"Professor!" Sebastian skidded to a halt a foot away, breathless. "What... What happened?"

Moriarty rung water from his suit coat, his nose wrinkled in distaste. He looked up, eyes sharp. "Holmes is dead. _We_ are retiring."

Sebastian blinked. "Retiring, sir?"

"Yes, retiring." Moriarty shook himself off and took hold of Sebastian's sleeve, tugging him away from the spray of the waterfall and back toward the mountain. "After all, someone has to teach Anna the ways of the world. Tell me, Anna, do you remember what we call the Scotland Yard?"

She gave a crooked, baby-toothed grin, her eyes crinkling up. "Idiots," she said, clapping her hands together.

Moriarty ruffled her hair. "Good girl. There's hope for you yet."

Sebastian's pulse finally began to settle, relief spreading through his chest. "What was it you said about not getting attached, sir?"

Moriarty scowled at him. "Quiet, Moran. Left to yourself, you would've spoiled her positively rotten with sweets."

Sebastian hid a smile, following Moriarty back toward the Inn. "Whatever you say, sir."


	9. In Which Holmes is Not a Good Sport

Dec 9th's prompt was from Spockologist: The word scripturient must be used somewhere in the story.

Scripturient: _adjective_; having a violent desire to write.

I miss Spockologist and her crazy awesome vocabulary. Enjoy! 221Bs are good for catching up... And practicing succinctness.

xxxxx

My shoulder ached from the evening's incidents. I rubbed at it, then continued writing. The fire crackled beside me, lending me a warm glow by which to record our adventure.

Holmes creaked his way down the stairs, limping. He caught sight of me and frowned. "Still writing?"

"Almost done." I turned the page over and started a new line.

"You've become downright scripturient as of late, dear chap." Holmes took a few steps nearer. "My disregard for sleep does not mean you ought to follow suit."

"Don't worry, Holmes, I'm nearly through."

Holmes froze. "This is about Shi Jian Kai's sister, isn't it?"

"You've caught me." I tapped my chin thoughtfully, feigning innocence. "What was her name? I don't believe I ever heard it. _You_ must know, in any case."

"That is none of your affair." Holmes leaned against the mantle, his shoulders set in their most brooding and surly manner.

A wry smile spread across my face. "Perhaps she'll come to call at Baker Street soon. The two of you seem to have made quite an impression on one another."

Holmes scowled. "Watson. Go to bed."


	10. Festive Reluctance

Dec 10th's prompt is from Book girl fan: The Scotland Yard Christmas party, complete with Secret Santa, and Holmes guessing who everyone's Secret Santas are.

xxxxx

Sherlock Holmes stormed from the room, slamming the door behind himself and leaving a few seconds of stunned silence in his wake.

Santa hat in hand, I trudged after him. I sent an apologetic wave backwards.

"Holmes?" Light spilled into the dark hall as I pushed the door ajar. I slipped through, watching the corners warily. Scotland Yard was unsettling at night, it seemed.

"_What_?"

I startled, finding myself face to face with my friend. His was written with deep lines of frustration and weariness, his shoulders tense.

"I only..." I shrugged. "I only came to check on you. Gardner didn't mean his remarks, I'm sure, and he's just a lad."

Holmes's eyes were overhung with shadow. "Do not play the fool, Watson. He meant them, he meant for me to hear them, and I am certain many of the others were in agreement. You are welcome to stay, but I am going home."

"Holmes," I sighed. "The point of Secret Santa is for it to remain secret. It's Christmastime, everyone needs a bit of fun in their life. To them, having the surprise spoiled takes out all the fun. That's all."

Holmes threw up his hands. "But what's the _point_ when it's so terribly obvious?"

I mustered a gentle tone. "I don't think it's obvious to anyone else."

There was a brief quiet.

Then Holmes rubbed at his temples. "I know. It... Isn't something I can turn _off_, you know, but-I got carried away."

A smile twisted my mouth. "That you did, my friend. It isn't too late. Come back inside. Even though you already know it's him, Lestrade will still want to give you your gift."

Holmes shifted, reluctant. "Perhaps... But perhaps not."

I rolled my eyes, seized his sleeve, and pulled. "Oh, come along, you great sod. We're both going back in."

Holmes allowed me to drag him. "First you lecture me and now you insult me," he muttered. "Christmas spirit indeed."

I glanced back, but he was half-smiling.

I grinned. "Happy Christmas, Holmes."

"It is only December the Twentieth, Watson, do not get ahead of yourself." Holmes followed me, sighing. I could hear the smile grow in his voice, exasperation coloring it. "Happy Christmas, I suppose."

"Thank you."


	11. The Perfect Disguise

Dec 11's prompt was from cjnwriter: A character makes a drastic change that shocks others.

Silliness, mostly. Enjoy!

* * *

I approached Baker Street cautiously, picking my way around the ice. The door was unlocked; I stepped inside, sighing at the immediate warmth.

"Mrs. Hudson? Holmes?"

I took off my coat and scarf, hanging them by the door. My boots dripped puddles onto the floor. I wiped them on the mat, guilty.

The clicking of polished shoes came around the corner. Mrs. Hudson appeared.

I smiled. "Hello, Na-"

She screamed.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" She came closer, brandishing a feather duster with a considerable amount of violence. "I'll have you know that we are personal friends with the Captain of the Scotland Yard. I suggest you leave at once."

I backed a few steps away, putting my hands up. "Nanny, it's me. Watson."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Watson who?"

"John Watson!" I cried. "For Heavens' sake, I live here!"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes narrowed. She looked me up and down. "You don't look a thing like John Watson. He has a moustache."

"I _had_ a moustache, I just shaved." I stepped forward and she jabbed me with the feather duster, sending dust flying into my face. I sneezed and spluttered. "N-Nanny, please. Just send for Holmes."

"And leave you alone to help yourself to our home? Unlikely, sir." She seized my arm and dragged me up the stairs. "Holmes!"

Holmes's long-suffering sigh was audible through the door. "What is it this time, Mrs. Hudson?"

She swung the door open and thrusted me inside. "This young rouge just appeared in our entryway. He claims to be Doctor Watson. Do you recognise him?"

Holmes was smoking and reading. He set down his book, holding his pipe in one hand, and examined me. For a moment, his face was written with confusion.

"Watson?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes, Holmes, it's me."

His expression cleared and he stood. "Capital. I would have hated to go through the trouble of dispatching the impostor." He circled around me twice. "You look different. What have you changed?"

"I _shaved_. That's all."

Holmes grinned. "Oh, of course! I see it now. Hm... The moustache suited you better, I must say."

"Thank you," I said dryly. "Now. I received a message on my way here. Lestrade needs us at a crime scene."

Holmes clapped his hands together. "Wonderful. We can leave at once."

* * *

Holmes and I trudged away from the crime scene.

After three, "We can't have _civilians _here, Holmes!"

Two, "What are you doing? Who is that?"

And one, "He can't be Doctor Watson! He's _hideous!_"

We'd been kicked off the scene.

I kicked at a rock dolefully. "I'm sorry about the case, Holmes."

He waved it off. "Don't trouble yourself. If they really need me, they'll come back." He eyed me sideways, wry. "You'd best get to work on regrowing that moustache, though, old chap."

I sighed, my smile sheepish. "Yes, I guess I had better."


	12. Farewell

Dec 12th's prompt was from Alosha135: If you love something, let it go.

* * *

The scene is simple:

A hospital bed.

A patient.

A doctor.

But today, this doctor is not acting as a doctor. He is here in a different role; one he hoped never to have to play.

"I'm so sorry, John," Mary says, her voice hoarse and small as a sick child's. Her hand is cool beneath his, and she is so pale.

"Don't." John swallows hard, rests his forehead against her shoulder. "It isn't your fault. None of it is."

Mary kisses his hair, her eyes welling up. Childbirth has left her raw, drained; the loss of the new baby leaves them both reeling.

"I don't know if I'm going to make it," Mary says, her breath slow and shallow. Each inhale hurts.

The words pierce through John's chest.

_"She's dying," _the doctors outside had said. _"There's nothing we can do."_

He sits up, takes her hands in earnest. "Don't worry about me, love," he says, his fingers tracing over her knuckles. His voice wavers. "If it's time for you to go... Go."

Tears run down both of their cheeks. Mary nods quietly.

"I love you," she murmurs.

His smile shatters her heart. "I love you too."

* * *

The scene is simple:

A cemetery.

A headstone.

A man.

He stands alone, dressed all in black. The flowers in his hand are a lone splash of color in this dark, silent place. Three of the people dearest to him are buried here now.

Taking a deep breath, he sets the bouquet down gently.

"Goodbye, Mary," he whispers.

Wind kisses his cheeks, cool but soft. Part of him hopes it is her, watching him from the heavens.

She will make a beautiful angel, their tiny babe in her arms. Perhaps she will find Holmes, and they will all wait for him together.

He lingers for a moment, brushing his fingers over the smooth stone. "I love you, Mary," he says. "So much."

And he does.

So he lets her go.


	13. An Impromptu Snow Day

Dec 13th's prompt was from Spockologist: 221B's roof collapses from snow.

Fitting, as this past Friday was Friday the 13th! A terrible spot of luck for our friends.

Poor Holmes, poor Watson... They'll be dreadfully chilly. Enjoy!

* * *

It was a fairly boring afternoon on Baker Street.

A peaceful sort of boring, however; not of the variety that sent my friend reaching for his syringes or seeking out a new target for my revolver. We had just solved a most confounding case, and as such, his mental functions were still satiated.

I was sitting in an armchair near the fire, perusing a new medical publication. It was a critique of various practices, featuring opinions from Doctors practicing in England, Europe, and America. I had just come across a section on bloodletting. I became thoroughly engrossed and paid my surroundings very little mind.

(As for myself, I have found that bloodletting can have its benefits in certain situations, but I shun it as a cure-all. Too many times, I have seen already weakened patients crippled by a removal of so much vital blood, and even healthy ones brought low following the procedure.)

Holmes was tinkering at his desk. The occasional clink of metal or scratch of his pen broke the silence, but all was peaceful.

Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. "I'm going out! I'll be back in a few hours!"

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," I responded.

Holmes continued his work, quiet.

Briefly, I glanced up from my reading. A faint noise creaked from above. "Do you suppose it's still snowing?" I asked Holmes.

"Possibly," he said, in a vague tone that suggested he'd not actually heard my question.

"Hm." I frowned, turning the page to a section on remedies for consumption.

The creaking noise came again, louder. Uneasy, I set down my book and stood, taking a step toward my friend. "Holmes..."

All at once, the ceiling splintered in.

Snow and wood came crashing down on us, knocking me to the ground. The wind stolen clean out of my lungs, I laid under a heap of snow, gasping for breath.

"Watson!" Holmes's shout was muffled through the debris.

"W-wh-" I panted, my face crushed into a Persian carpet we'd received from a client. As my attention was singularly on it, I noted that it could've used a cleaning. I inhaled sharply, my lungs burning. "I'm here!" I shouted back, hoarse.

"What in blazes happened?" I could hear Holmes pushing through the snow. I braced my hands on the floor and fought to stand, my fingers beginning to go numb.

I emerged. The pile rose past my knees.

"The roof collapsed," I said, dry.

"Yes, I can see _that_. But why?" Holmes waded amongst the wreckage, searching.

My brow furrowed. "Why, from the snow, of course."

"This roof was repaired and reinforced not two months ago." Holmes brushed a pile of frost away from his experiment, pushing the desk to rest beneath an intact portion of cover. "With this amount of snow on it, there is no reason for it to give in." I tucked my hands into my pockets, shivering. "I suppose... But it does seem like quite a lot of snow to me."

Holmes dragged an armchair to the centre of the room and beckoned me closer. "Hold this steady, would you?"

I obliged, mourning for the once cozy and dry sofa that would soon by dripping and frozen.

As I held it still, Holmes climbed it, standing on tiptoe and leaping the gap to the remainder of our sitting room roof.

"Careful, Holmes!" I cried.

"I am always careful." The detective disappeared from view. Wind whistled overhead, blowing frigid air and _more_ snow inside. I shivered, waiting.

After a moment, Holmes reappeared. He dropped neatly from the ceiling, landing in a heap of snow, and straightened. "We have been sabotaged."

"_Sabotaged_? By whom?" I edged nearer to the sputtering fire, willing some warmth back into my legs.

Holmes held up a small axe, his expression both grim and alight with interest. "There are marks from several different blades. I expect that in their haste to abandon the scene they lost this one in the snow."

"Why would someone do such a thing?" I demanded, indignant.

"That is the question, now, isn't it?" Holmes threw the axe over his shoulder, seizing my sleeve and dragging me to the stairs.

"Where are we going?" I asked. He tugged on a coat and scarf as I did the same. (It is a mark of my longstanding partnership with Holmes that, in general, I now comply without requiring much explanation.)

"To investigate, obviously." Holmes secured a hat over his ears and picked up the axe again, stowing it inside his coat. "We have a case to solve."

I wiggled my stiff fingers into a pair of mittens. "Now? Shouldn't we find Mrs. Hudson? Leave her a note?"

Holmes opened the door and bade me to exit, his mouth twisting wryly. "Watson," he said, "I have no doubt that she will notice all on her own."


	14. Highlands

Dec 14th's prompt was from Madam'zelle Giry: Celtic Christmas.

I'm afraid I know very little about all things Celtic, but I gave it a shot! Almost a 221B.

* * *

It was December the twenty-third.

I was tired, sore, and homesick; being dragged to the Scottish highlands to solve a case for an old acquaintance of Holmes had drained me of nearly all energy.

"Wait here a moment, Watson," Holmes bade me. He, on the other hand, radiated energy. We had only just turned the criminal over. I nodded, rubbing at my bruised eye, and leaned against the nearest building.

A spring in his step, Holmes approached a man and spoke to him. His hand gestures were wide and at one point he indicated me.

I stared at the sky, thinking of a soft armchair and glowing Christmas candles at Baker Street.

A moment later, Holmes returned. "Come, Watson. There's somewhere we need to go."

I bit back a complaint. "Very well."

Some time after, we found ourselves a ways outside of town, poised to take a few paces more and reach the peak of a small mountain.

Holmes climbed to the top of the ridge and stood, his hands pushed into his pockets. The wind ruffled his hair.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I stepped beside him, inhaling deeply. The cool, fresh air was sharp, scented with pines and grass and flowers. Something about this land spoke deeply of Christmas, of an ancient sense of honor, faith, and brotherhood. Despite my earlier protests, I could think of no better place to spend the holiday than here, with my friend.

I smiled.

"Yes," I replied, my shoulders loosening. "Beautiful."


	15. Candle on the Water

I am alive! Only barely, but still here.

Attempting to catch up...

December 15th's prompt was from from KnightFury: Loneliness. (I just realized your pen name may be inspired by HTTYD?)

Answered with a 221B. Promise I'll stop writing angsty hiatus things soon.

* * *

Holmes stared at the cobblestones as he walked.

Darkness was falling fast, sending the city into the brief lull that came between the bustle of daytime and the companionable murmurs of nighttime.

Already, windows glowed soft and yellow, silhouetting quiet figures.

"You!" The voice was accented. Holmes's head snapped up.

"Yes?"

"You have far to go?" The man was tall, leaning in an open doorway. "The wind is freezing tonight."

A glance at his hands revealed angry, red skin. "Not far," he said. "Thank you."

"Well... Be safe." The man waved and Holmes nodded, turning away.

The hollow feeling in his stomach had intensified over the past weeks; leaving him discontent and restless. Now could he pinpoint its source.

He was... lonely.

His mouth twisted as he entered his one-room flat.

The door closed behind him, leaving the room silent.

"Nonsensical," he muttered. He had not been lonely since his earliest days, before he'd discovered the company of books.

Now, though, he had known _good _company. The companionship of one who was a true friend. Without it, he felt adrift.

And yet he found the idea of seeking new friends repugnant. Replacing Watson was an impossibility.

He sank by the fireplace, fingers drifting over his newest message from Mycroft.

However he wished to, he knew he could never go back.


	16. Childlike Capers

Dec 16th's prompt was from I'm Nova: Kid!Lock.

(Kid!fic is my favorite fic.)

* * *

Sherlock was hanging halfway out his window, trying to pluck the last leaf from the tree outside. His fingers brushed an icicle and he shivered.

Just a few more centimetres...

"Absolutely not!"

Mother's voice startled him. He toppled forward, grabbing blindly for anything to steady himself. Just in time, he caught a branch, his shins still resting on his windowsill. He breathed out relief, his breath hanging in a cloud.

"It's already been decided, Margaret," Father said firmly. "He'll be here tomorrow, and I expect you to make him feel welcome."

"I will not have a strange child just coming into our household." Sherlock could picture Mother clearly. Her arms crossed, her chin jutting out. "Who knows what sort of boy he is, what kind of effect might he have on Sherlock and Mycroft?"

"His parents were some of the best folk I ever knew," Father said. "He'll be a good lad, I have no doubt. Please." He lowered his voice and Sherlock had to strain to catch the rest. "He has nowhere else to go. They've been trying to find a place for him for six months."

Margaret sighed. "Very well. But on probation."

"That's all I ask."

Footsteps crunched in the snow around the corner and Sherlock gasped, propelling himself backwards. He fell into his room, landing in a heap on the floor.

They passed beneath his window and out of sight.

Sherlock peeked out after them, his curiosity piqued. A strange boy coming to live with them?

Interesting.

* * *

He watched from the library window the next day, alight with anticipation. The carriage that pulled up was old and worn down; the horse dejected.

Out of it came a plain, sharp-eyed woman.

Sherlock couldn't see either her or his parents clearly enough to read their lips, nor could he hear them, but he watched intently anyway.

After a moment, the woman beckoned backwards.

There was no response.

She gestured more sharply, and a boy emerged from the carriage.

He was smaller than Sherlock, with fair brown hair and slumped shoulders. His face was downcast, making it difficult to get a read on him. He slogged through the snow to stand beside his escort.

His body language suggested both weariness and wariness.

They would be coming inside soon.

Sherlock hurried away from the window and opened a book, settling in the large armchair.

They would come to him eventually.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mother called. "Come here. There's someone we'd like you to meet."

Sherlock set his book down and made his way out at a leisurely pace.

"Yes?" He asked, pushing his hands into his pockets. Mycroft had taken to doing that, when he was home from school, and it made him look more grown up.

"This is John Watson. He's going to be staying with us for awhile." Father's hand was resting on the boy's shoulder.

John looked like he was two seconds from bolting, held in place only by a stubborn courage.

He met Sherlock's eyes and swallowed.

"You're an orphan," Sherlock realised.

John's teeth clenched.

"Sherlock," Mother hissed. "Be polite."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Sorry," he said dutifully. He held out one hand. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. How old are you?"

John shook his hand. "Seven." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in awhile.

"So am I." Sherlock looked him up and down. "You're very short, for a seven year old."

John gave the faintest of smiles. "Maybe you're just very tall."

Sherlock smirked.

He liked John already.

* * *

Three days later, it was time for Sherlock to enact his plan.

After their initial introduction, John had stayed mainly in his room, and his parents had expressly forbidden Sherlock from bothering him.

He was bored, curious, and annoyed.

Certainly John must've been _upset_, after having his parents die and living under that vulture of a woman's eye for six months. But he couldn't see how spending three days closed up in one's room was going to help.

He had had enough.

So that night, after his parents (and Myrcroft, home for the holiday) were sleeping soundly, Sherlock armed himself with a candle and a pair of very thick socks, creeping along the floor to John's room down the hall.

He opened the door without knocking and slipped inside.

John was awake, staring at the ceiling and holding a threadbare stuffed dog.

He bolted upright, scrambling backwards and watching Sherlock with large eyes.

"What do you want?" He asked, his breath shaky.

Sherlock flapped one hand. "Don't be scared, I'm not here to hurt you."

John relaxed, but only a little. He scooted to the edge of his bed and stood, looking up at Sherlock curiously.

"Why are you here, then?"

"I have an experiment to complete. It involves sneaking out."

John frowned. "And?"

Sherlock stepped closer. "You're an orphan. I bet you've seen a lot of trouble."

John nodded slowly. "A lot. Far too much."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow; a challenge. "Want to see some more?"

There was a pause.

Then John grinned. "Oh, yes."


	17. Newton's Suggestion

Dec 17th's prompt was from Hades: Test.

* * *

Most people, when presented with a length of rope, trust in the integrity of the manufacturer's testing.  
Not so for my friend Sherlock Holmes.  
He had just unwrapped the package, and was sitting in an armchair, tugging at it critically.  
I sat across from him, watching. "What are you doing?"  
"I am testing its quality," Holmes muttered. "One cannot be too careful, in these days."  
I nodded slowly.  
"I am certain they test their products at the factory."  
"Inadequate," Holmes declared with a flap of the hand. "And I will not use poor materials on my cases."  
I shrugged, going back to my paper. A moment later, Holmes bolted to his feet.  
"Where are you going now?" I asked, eyebrow raised.  
"I have an idea." He yanked on his overcoat and hat. "A test for the rope. It's foolproof."  
"...what, precisely, does it involve?"  
"Come along, Watson. I'll show you." 

* * *

I pushed my hands into my pockets, staring up several meters to where Holmes stood atop a building.  
"Are you sure about this?" I called.  
"I have never been MORE sure about anything in my life!"  
I rolled my eyes. Holmes had a flair for dramatics.  
He secured the rope about his waist, then tied the other end to something on the roof. I watched as he counted down.  
Three, two... One.  
He jumped.  
He plummeted through the air.  
For a moment all seemed well, then the tension hit the line.  
The rope snapped, and Holmes landed in a crumpled heap in the snow.  
I hurried over. "Holmes, are you hurt?  
"I am fine." Holmes brushed me off with one hand, the rest of him still stuck in the snow.  
l sighed. "No thanks to your own care, certainly. This was not your best idea, my friend."  
"To the contrary," Holmes retorted, muffled by the rope piled on his head. "I have discovered, in a relatively risk-free environment, that this rope will NOT do for serious case use."  
I opened my mouth, then closed it. "Well, you have a point."  
Holmes hauled himself to his feet, wobbled, and lifted his chin piously. "Of course I do. I told you, it was foolproof."


	18. Stop, Drop

December 18th's prompt was from Spockologist: 221B gets set on fire...either on purpose or accidentally.

Happy Christmas Eve, everyone! I hope it is a wonderful day for you all.

I am resolved to catch up today.

* * *

"Holmes."

My voice was muffled by my palms, my chin resting on them. I peeked out between limp fingers.

"Holmes."

"What?" Holmes was slumped halfway over the table, squinting so hard that his eyes were nearly closed. He poked at a test tube, leaning heavily on one arm.

"We should go to sleep." I yawned, then let my jaw close with a snap. My fingers still smelt faintly of sawdust, I noted.

"I am not tired, Watson. Perhaps _you _ought to go to sleep." Holmes tugged a leaf of paper sprinkled with coppery metal shavings toward himself, using clumsy hands to scoop it into a funnel.

"Come now," I reasoned, curling my fists to form a ledge beneath my chin instead. "You found that scroll. Now it's time to rest."

Holmes set the paper down, a petulant note entering his voice. "I cannot. I'm studying the effects of sleep deprivation on logical reasoning and scientific knowledge. It's quite intriguing. If I stay awake for approximately eight more hours, I'll be able to conduct a fascinating study on the effect on motor skills-wait, what are you doing?"

I dragged at his elbow. "I will not be able to sleep peacefully knowing that you're down here puttering about with dangerous chemicals when you haven't slept in days."

"Then I shall stop and putter around with harmless chemicals instead!" Holmes wrested himself from my grasp and seized a glass vial filled with fine, white powder. "See?"

He dumped it into his test tube.

The instant it touched the liquid, it erupted.

We were pushed backwards, heat and a sulphurous stench exploding in our faces. I crumpled at the foot of a bookshelf, while Holmes found himself sprawled over the settee.

I blinked. "Holmes, is the table on fire?"

Holmes lifted his head, having the gall to sound both nonchalant and unharmed. "Why, yes, I believe it is."

I scrambled to my feet, staggering toward my friend. "Fill this with water!" I thrust an empty bowl into his hands, and began to beat at the flames with a blanket.

The blanket subsequently caught fire and flared up in my eyes.

I swore and dropped it, jumping backwards.

Holmes tossed the water in my face. I spluttered and choked, scrubbing at my eyes with my charred sleeves.

"My goodness!" Nanny swung the door open and burst inside. "What in heaven's name are you two doing?"

"It was Holmes's fault-"

"It was all Watson's idea-"

Nanny pushed us aside and filled a pot with water, dousing the flames and stamping out the sparks. She then spun on us and stared us down, stern. "Boys. Didn't you say you would be taking time to rest this evening?"

Holmes scuffed the ground, trying to look aloof. "Plans changed, Mrs. Hudson. Such things happen."

Mrs. Hudson scowled. "Plans be dratted. You look terrible-both of you. You're lucky you didn't burn this place to the ground!" She glanced upwards at the new scorch marks on the ceiling and grumbled. "And after we just had this replaced..."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," I mumbled.

"To bed." She pointed. "And not a peep until after first light."

"Yes, Nanny," we chorused obediently.

Thoroughly chastened, we made our way from the study.

"Watson," Holmes said, his voice low and secretive, "I may have mixed up those tubes."

I fixed him with a very flat stare. "I do believe so, Holmes."

He shook his head, disturbed. "It seems the effects of sleep deprivation are more severe than I had at first supposed."

"I would have to concur." I steered him to his door. "Which means we both ought to get some rest."

Holmes yawned and stretched. "Yes, dear fellow, I quite agree. Why didn't you suggest it earlier?"

It was only a desire to retire to my soft, warm bed without further argument that allowed me to smile beatifically. "I shall be certain to remember in the future. Good night, Holmes."

"Hm? Oh, yes. Good night."


	19. The Pros and Cons of Ornithology

From Galaxy100D:

Dec 19: Write a story with Mycroft Holmes in it.

I have two days.. I'm gonna do it.

I really have a weakness for kid!Lock, it's a problem. This is in the same universe as my previous kid!Lock story.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea?"

John had lived with the Holmes family for four months now, and he'd asked that question more times than he could count.

"Of course I'm sure."

...and he'd heard that reply just as many times.

Sherlock crept through the pale spring grass ahead of him, glancing over his shoulder. "You are coming, aren't you?"

John sighed. "Yes, I'm coming."

They were both in their pyjamas, with coats thrown hastily over the tops; in the wee hours before dawn, the air was still sharp with cold.

Sherlock came to a halt beneath the window, looking up. John stood beside him.

"Why couldn't we just go through the hall?"

"Mycroft keeps his door locked."

"And?"

"And I haven't perfected lock picking yet." Sherlock stripped off his mittens and reached for the tree. "Give me a boost, then I'll pull you up."

John swallowed. "Won't Mycroft be upset?"

Sherlock waved the concern away, stepping up onto John's clasped hands. "Perhaps, but he's always cross these days, anyway. I know he has a new book on Ornithology, I want to read it."

"What's... Ornithology?"

"The study of birds."

John frowned. "Oh."

They scaled the tree and Sherlock eased himself along the branches toward Mycroft's window.

"Maybe I'll just wait out here." John's heart pounded at the thought of being reprimanded.

"Don't be silly. We've come this far."

Sherlock's persuasive nature was going to be the death of him.

A moment later, they tumbled into Mycroft's room...

...and right into his desk lamp.

It hit the floor and shattered.

They cringed.

"Quick," Sherlock hissed, grabbing a book from Mycroft's bed and tucking it into his coat. "Back out the window."

Candlelight flooded the room and Mycroft's voice pierced the silence. "Boys, what on earth are you doing?"

John winced. "Sorry, Mycroft."

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock said. "This is a dream."

"It is not." Mycroft set the candle on his bedside table and sat up, scowling. "You broke my lamp. That was a gift."

John looked back at Sherlock. He was crossing his arms and sulking. John sighed. It would be up to him then.

"What can we do to make it up to you?"

Mycroft's eyes glinted. "What an excellent question. I have just the thing."

Sherlock scrubbed an ink stain on Mycroft's shirt moodily, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The morning was fresh and clear, and John and Sherlock were in the middle of the yard, laundering Mycroft's clothes and cleaning his school supplies.

"Don't we have servants for this?" Sherlock grumbled.

"It serves us right, and you know it." John polished Mycroft's boots, watching a bird fly overhead. "And besides that, he's still letting you borrow that bird book."

Sherlock's reply was lost in the sound of his scrubbing, but John paid his surliness no mind.

He was content here.


	20. In Which Dead Bodies are Unexpected

From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma:

20/Utilise a common Christmas carol for a Sherlock Holmes mystery

This was a super fun prompt! I am sure you'll be able to tell which carol it is pretty quickly...

Also, I experienced major deja vu while writing this. Sorry the style is a bit choppy! I've got to write shorter fills if I'm going to catch up today.

* * *

Jimmy laughed and stumbled backward through the snow, holding his hands high above his head. "Throw it, Hawk! I'll catch it!"

Hawk grinned and tossed Jimmy a snowball. Jimmy spun and threw it at Fred, who scowled at him and made to get him back.

It was a grey, cold day, the sun too shy to show its face except in a soft glow between clouds. Jimmy's nose and cheeks had long since turned red, and his breath made icy clouds in front of him.

But he had a new coat and new boots from his old Aunt Ingrid, he had his friends, and it was only five days till Christmas. He was happy.

"C'mon, Hawk, 'urry up now!" He held out his hands. Hawk's throw went long, arcing over his reach and past him. He ran to catch up with it, his eyes on the sky.

It sailed into his outstretched hand and he grinned.

He skidded to a halt, but collided sharply with a large snowman. His head went into the snow and he knocked the whole thing over. Shivering, he gulped and rubbed the frost from his eyes. They hadn't built it; whoever had wouldn't be happy.

"Jimmy, are you alr-what the devil..." Hawk and Fred stood above him.

"What?" Jimmy crawled out of the heap and got to his feet, rubbing his eyes again.

When his vision cleared, his eyes went wide.

"Oh no."

* * *

"Mr. 'Olmes!"

I glanced up from my paper at the sound of fists pounding the front door.

"Nanny?" I called.

There was no response.

Holmes was by the fire, having finally fallen asleep, and I was loathe to wake him. Whoever it was, I could tend to it for the moment.

Quietly, I made my way down the stairs and opened the front door.

Three gangly, frost-bitten lads stood on the stoop, panting.

"Is Mr. 'Olmes here?" The tallest of them asked. "We need 'is help something awful!"

"Keep your voices down, boys," I said. "Mr. Holmes is-"

"Right here. Hello Hawk, Fred, Jimmy. Come and sit by the fire and we'll talk."

* * *

Holmes's eyes were sharp, glinting in the firelight as he stood before the young rouges. "A body? Inside of a snowman?"

"Aye, sir," Fred said, timidly. "A man it was, an' he was right and proper dead."

"Which of you found it?"

Jimmy raised his hand. "I ran into him, sir," he said. "And we didn't know what to do."

"You haven't gone to the police?" Holmes asked.

"No," Hawk said, arms crossed. "We didn't think they'd believe it wasn't us."

I frowned. "I believe they would have. Holmes, shouldn't we send for Lestrade?"

"I suppose we must." Holmes beckoned for the boys to follow him. "Hawk, you go and fetch Detective Lestrade. Tell him I sent you. Jimmy, Fred, you come with us. I need to see this snowman."

* * *

"Great Scott," Lestrade breathed, standing over the body. Holmes and I had excavated him carefully. "It's Parson Brown."

"Indeed." Holmes was solemn. The Parson had lived only a few blocks from us; we'd had tea with him the previous month, and he was a very kind, wise man. Not very old, either; younger than I was.

"How was he killed?"

"Three stab wounds, to the back." Holmes stood, brushing snow from his hands. His eyes were grave. "We've seen this before, Detective."

"Have we?" Lestrade stepped back. The three boys now stood several meters away, casting wary glances at the stiff, blue form.

"Six years ago. Don't you remember? He killed five people before we caught him. Called himself the Bluebird."

My eyes widened. "I remember reading about that in the papers. Did he kill all of them the same way?"

"Precisely the same way. Three stab wounds to the back, and we'd find them in a snowman the next morning." Holmes knelt again. "There's just one more thing..." He pried open the Parson's hand and everyone went silent.

A blue feather was clenched between his fingers.

"But... But he was hanged!" Lestrade spluttered. "You were there. _I _was there!"

"Yes, yes." Holmes stood, presenting the feather to one of the other policemen. "Obviously we're dealing with a copycat. Somebody who thinks it a noble thing to follow in this man's footsteps." His mouth curled downward. "We need to find him before he can do it again."

"Right. I'm going to send these three home, if you don't mind." I gestured toward the lads. "They've been through quite enough."

"That's fine," Lestrade said. "We've got everything we need for now."

* * *

"Holmes, are you sure about this?" I whispered, lowering my head another inch to keep from striking it on the top of the crawlspace.

"My dear fellow," Holmes said, his voice muffled through his scarf. "When will you stop asking me that question?"

"When you stop getting us into situations that require it." I edged around a very large spider and hurried to catch up with my friend.

We were beneath an old house; reportedly, the one where Milton Quilby, the Bluebird, had lived.

According to Holmes, this new imitator would want to follow details as closely as possible. Therefore, the madman's old dwelling was a perfect place to start.

"What about Lestrade?"

"They have been notified. If they don't arrive in time, that is their problem." Holmes stopped. "Here we are. Are you ready?"

"Yes," I coughed. "I'm ready."

"Three... Two... One."

We burst through the floor and I drew my revolver, blinking dust from my eyes. The house was a dirty and decrepit as the space beneath it had been; boarded up windows and broken dishes surrounded us.

"This way," Holmes murmured.

I followed him, keeping my aim at the ready.

"Just a few more hours till dark, then we can go back out and kill the next one. I know, be patient. It'll be worth it."

Holmes gestured for me to move to the right, while he crept to the left.

We treaded forward lightly, Holmes ready with part of a broken chair. I turned my pistol around and struck the man sharply on the back of the head.

He crumpled.

"Police!"

Lestrade and his men came tramping inside. I tucked my gun away quickly, and we stepped back from the killer.

Lestrade halted and looked between us.

He blinked.

"Well. That was surprisingly simple."

They cuffed the man and dragged him away.

Holmes sulked. "I don't know when you'll all stop doubting me."

I hid a smile and patted him on the back. "You did well, Holmes."

He sniffed. "Thank you. Hm. You weren't so bad yourself."


	21. A Common Mistake, Really

From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma:

21/ A mystery in rhyme

This was also very fun. :D I am very rusty at any sort of verse.

* * *

Holmes and Watson wish

For something to fill their day.

Waiting for a knock,

For someone to come and play.

At once they hear a sound,

Voices raised in hopeful cry.

"Is Sherlock Holmes at home?

Can he help us? Will he try?"

Holmes and Watson race

Down the steps and down the stairs.

They cannot wait to greet

Worried folk who've gathered there.

"We have a problem, sir,

And it fills us up with dread.

For when we came back home,

We found our father lying dead."

Holmes and Watson share a glance,

Seeing eye to eye.

"I believe that we can help you,

Certainly we will try."

To the home they rush,

Round cabs and men and carts,

And despite the grim occurrence,

They are grateful in their hearts.

"He's here!" They cry. "Still abed!"

The house is quiet and grim.

"Some space, if you please," asks Sherlock Holmes.

"I need to look at him."

Around the bed Holmes circles,

His eyes are sharp and clever.

Watson waits, and then Holmes cries,

"My goodness! Why, I never."

His voice sends the others running,

All gasping and wringing their hands.

"Please tell us what you've discovered, sir,

We just don't understand!"

The Detective stood and raised his hand.

"My friends, please stop your weeping.

For while you thought your father dead,

It seems he was merely sleeping."


End file.
